Noble Hearts
by slightlyskewed
Summary: During the Dagor Bragollach, Maedhros grows to understand the loss of hope and the pain of war. Sounds melodramatic, but it honestly isn't that bad...PG-13 for future gore and talk of suicide.
1. Chapter One

Noble Hearts  
  
The air, damp with mist, was quickly becoming the worst enemy of those who defended Himring. This late at night, when the moon was only a swollen blotch behind the clouds, the mist made it impossible to see-black ash swirled imperceptibly, coating armor and hair and the once fair faces of corpses fallen below the walls.  
  
Maedhros son of Fëanor stood beside the gates. His armor was sodden and flecked with ash and gore, but he didn't seem to notice; nor did he notice the cold of the wind, which blew ever from the North. His left gauntlet was wrapped in string, and through slashes in the leather the stern glitter of mail could be seen. The wingéd sun on his surcoat was obscured by blood and black ash.  
  
"Do you see them?" he called to the sentry at the gate. One of the elves who had fallen against the walls stirred and groaned, a lonely sound in an otherwise silent night.  
  
The chink of mail. The sentry was nodding.  
  
"Yes, lord. Still far away, but they move through the Marches like monkeys."  
  
Maedhros sighed and put a hand up to his eyes, leaving black smudges on his temples. "So it's not over yet."  
  
"Will it ever be?" one of the soldiers left alive muttered.  
  
Maedhros stretched, winced. The slash in his gauntlet had gone through to his arm, it seemed. Not bleeding much, though. Could have been much worse.  
  
He didn't like the quiet here. Usually, the aftermath of a battle was noisy-it was then that people found the time to scream, to weep, and to live again. There should have been relief.  
  
But they had nearly died here, in the sudden unleashing of Angband. Rumor was that Celegorm and Curufin had lost the Pass of Aglon. They said the Sons of Fëanor were doomed, and gentle Maedhros would not be able to hold out against the storm. They said Maglor was dead and his halls were fallen.  
  
They said this as they dragged their wounded into the fortress and buried the dead in mass graves. The Siege of Angband was broken. The Lords of Beleriand were broken. There was nothing left.  
  
Maedhros wondered how on earth he could get them to fight.  
  
"Lord Maedhros! Something's coming!"  
  
There was the groan and the creak of five hundred arrows put to five hundred bows. Maedhros leaned down and looked over the walls.  
  
A single figure approached over the hills, cloaked in blue. He was hunched low over the neck of his horse, and he carried no banner or flag. One of the elves behind Maedhros gave a soft moan and drew the arrow back further.  
  
Maedhros narrowed his eyes and bent forward. It was impossible to see anything in this mist.and, for some reason, his head felt light as air. Someone put a hand on his arm and drew him back.  
  
"Probably best not to lean out too far, my lord. You don't look like you feel very well."  
  
"I am fine."  
  
Maedhros supposed the person must have gone away, because after one clap on the shoulder there was no more movement. He squinted, but still could not see. Blue cloak. That was all. And the horse was a fine dapple grey.  
  
"I don't think it's an orc," he said at last, though he was not at all sure. It was too late and too misty and the air was far too close. His stomach heaved unpleasantly. "Open the gates. If Morgoth has sent a scout, there are five hundred of us and one of him."  
  
The call, echoed back into the fortress below and the white halls that had once stood so beautiful: "Unbar the gates! Let him through, Lord Maedhros's orders!"  
  
There were murmurs from the ranks of elves with arrows at their bows, but Maedhros ignored them. Slowly, carefully, he climbed down the nearest ladder. Walked towards the gates.  
  
"Perhaps you should wait until he's been examined, lord?" The sentry was leaning into the keep now, watching Maedhros. Maedhros shook his head and unsheathed his sword, a gesture that made his arm begin throbbing again.  
  
"Celeblas, I want to know if my family is alive. Don't blame me for that."  
  
"No one's blaming you, lord."  
  
Off in the distance, far to the North, a rumble of marching feet began. Morgoth's second batch of orcs was still a good distance away, but there wouldn't be much time to prepare. The noise broke the silence, and somehow Maedhros was glad of it. Now, at least, the danger was real.  
  
He took a few steps outside of the gates. The area around the base of the keep was blackened and stained with blood. There were corpses piled high here, elves and orcs mostly, and they were beginning to stink. Maedhros tried not to think about having to clean all this up.if, indeed, he ever had to worry about it.  
  
The rider dismounted, a slow, slithering dismount that said he was either badly injured or unused to riding. Closer, now. Maedhros got a brief glimpse of a white face under the hood, a curl of black hair. Eyes mellowed by the sight of the Trees in full beauty.  
  
"It's an elf," he called up. He was not sure if he actually called, or if it was his imagination. No one responded.  
  
The figure stumbled forward a few steps, halted. He seemed to be looking up at the walls.  
  
"They won't hurt you," Maedhros said.  
  
The cloaked face of the rider swiveled around, stopped in his direction.  
  
"I am Maedhros, son of Fëanor, who some call Russandol. If you can, please." Maedhros paused, composed himself. "Please tell us some news of the outside world. This is the first lull in the fighting we've had for days."  
  
The elf stumbled forward another few steps. Maedhros took his arm and helped him into the keep. He was trembling, and Maedhros suspected the blockiness of his figure was due mostly to bandages.  
  
"Angrod is dead. Aegnor is dead. Orodreth lost his lands, and Fingolfin keeps Hithlum at great loss."  
  
"And what of Fingon? Does my cousin live?"  
  
"I know not."  
  
"And the sons of Fëanor?"  
  
"Curufin and Celegorm fled to Nargothrond. Their lands are overrun and the Pass is taken."  
  
"What of the rest?"  
  
"Amrod and Amras retreat. Caranthir holds Thargelion, but he will soon be attacked. They took-oh, Eru, Maedhros, they took the Gap. My people- "  
  
Maedhros's stomach knotted again, and suddenly all the ash in the air welled up to choke him. Knowing what he would find, he pushed back the other elf's hood.  
  
Alone and defeated, Maglor son of Fëanor collapsed at the threshold of his brother's fortress. 


	2. Chapter Two

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Something I should add...bit of descent into uncanonical territory here :-P I wanted Maglor's men with Caranthir for a little while so I would have an excuse for having him come alone. 

"And what of your people?"

"What few remain are in Thargelion, with Caranthir. The orcs hadn't yet taken over those lands, but now that the Gap is forced" 

Maglor seemed smaller than usual, half swallowed by the fur coverlets spread liberally over his bed. If it were not for the blackness of the sky and the telltale clanking of armor, this could be any one of the times Maglor had come to visit his brother on Himring. 

Maedhros sighed, looking down at him. Maglor was reasonably good with a sword, and much better even than Maedhros with a spearbut he lacked the cold-heartedness necessary to kill without thinking. In the past, when the Siege held and all was quiet, it was Maedhros who planned out all the military movements, Maedhros who fought at the front lines, Maedhros whose sword always hung, polished and ready, over the mantle in his study. 

"Now that the Gap is forced," Maedhros said, knowing what Maglor was thinking, "all is lost. Thargelion will fall."

"Have a little hope. Caranthir won't give in."

Maedhros gave a short, tired smile. "That's what I'm afraid of." 

Maglor watched his brother in silence for a moment: outside, the slow swell of marching feet increased. "Maedhros, you need to sit down and get your arm tended to. You can't afford being weak in the left hand."

Maedhros shook his head. He was afraid of sitting down—he knew that, if he did, all motivation to fight would leave him. He had been like this before, in days long ago when they had come over the seas from Elvenhome. He feared for his own courage. He did not want to look weak, especially not in front of Maglor, who had comforted him so many times. 

"I'm fine. Try to get some rest, brother. Morgoth's host will be here soon, and then"

_And then, brother, none of us shall have rest. _

"it might be a little too noisy to sleep." 

Maglor sank back on the pillows. Maedhros stayed in the room until his breathing became even—how thin he was, how pale the veins of blue in his eyelids! He reached down, touched his brother's cheek briefly. So much hope in that still, thin face

"My lord?"

"Yes, Celeblas." 

Celeblas paused by the door, blinking. He had not been expecting the quiet acknowledgement in that statement, nor the look on his lord's face. 

"We think they'll be here by nightfall. Everything that could be repaired has been repaired, but we're short on men."

Maedhros closed his eyes against another wave of dizziness. "How many are left?"

"Five hundred, eight hundred if you count the wounded."

"If we're valiant, we can hold out perhaps three days." 

"It isn't enough." 

Maedhros thought of Maglor, whose horsemen had perished in fire. He thought of Angrod and Aegnor, Finarfin's warrior sons, now little more than ashes on some foreign field. "It has to be."

Celeblas looked as if he was about to touch his lord's shoulder, but stopped. Outside, a shower of ash fell from one of the few trees growing, moved by the freezing winds. "So grim," he muttered at last. "My lord--?"

"I am grim because the situation is grim, Celeblas. If you wouldn't mind, go down to the kitchens and tell the few cooks who remain there to prepare a feast. We have time to eat before nightfall." 

Celeblas's eyes widened, and he looked at Maedhros as if he were mad. Which, Maedhros supposed dryly, he was—if he was sane, he never would have left Valinor. 

"Yes, we'll feast. All of us. If we're to die in three days, provisions for a siege do not matter—and I at least would rather die with a full stomach." 

"You won't die. I won't let you." Then, awkwardly: "my lord, at least bind your arm. The blood is drying. It looks like it hurts." 

Maedhros closed his eyes again. "The kitchens, Celeblas."

"I won't—"

"The kitchens!"

Celeblas turned and fled the room, pushing aside one of the elves ascending the stairwell. Maedhros checked to make sure his brother still slept and pulled the coverlet tighter about his body. He looked out the window, watched the glint of mail on the walls. Closed the shutters. Made sure the fire was at a comfortable level for a wounded elf wrapped in fur. 

Left.


	3. Chapter Three

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It liiiiives! I didn't totally forget about it! *cough* anyway, thank you to all the very kind people who'ce read and reviewed...now, on with the angst.

There was not properly a dusk, because there had never properly been a dawn. The ashy dark of the sky never changed, but the elves of Himring all felt that night was approaching–it was in the quickening of the marching feet, and the heavy inertia that rolled over their bodies and lithe Elven minds. Maedhros, dressed with splendid severity in black and white, watched from the walls as torches began to flicker in the hills. 

He loved these hills as he loved nothing else. What terrible beauty in a white forsaken morning, what music in the howl of the winds–it hurt him more than he expected to see the bodies heaped beneath his keep lit by torches, and to hear the barely audible cackle of Orcish voices blown by the breeze. What a shame.

"Yes," he murmured, "a terrible, awful shame. These hills are covered in it."

He supposed it was his, and that now his men would have to fight for it. The shame of a son of Fëanor–what a banner to bear before you into battle!

Maedhros had washed the cut on his arm, but had not had the time to bandage it. Though he no longer wore mail, he had replaced his old string-bound gauntlet to stop the bleeding. He knew his men, especially Celeblas who hoped to be a hero, would find some symbolism in this. 

He hoped they would tell him what it was. Perhaps he too could admire the wisdom in it. 

"Lord Maedhros?" a voice by his ear said.

Celeblas looked even younger than usual–barely more than a child, with a round face topped by a cap of dark hair. His proportions still had not lengthened to their adult correctness, and he came up to perhaps the shoulders of Maedhros, who had always been tall. Maedhros felt a moment of pity, but quickly discarded it as useless for both the boy and himself. 

"Again, Celeblas? Is there trouble in the kitchens?"

"No" Maedhros waited, patient, for the rest of the statement.

"I wanted to talk to you." 

"Words of ill omen," Maedhros murmured, bot not loud enough for the other elf to hear. "Speak, but speak quickly. I need to ready the archers along the northern walls before the day is through."

Celeblas sat down, following his lord's gaze across the hills. Maedhros wondered how old he actually was.

"What was he like?" Celeblas asked at last. 

"Who?"

"Fëanor. Your father. He was the greatest of all the Noldor."

Maedhros laughed. The noise was abruptly swallowed by the wind. "He was proud, arrogant, and self-centered beyond belief. He had reason to be, I suppose. He was brilliant." 

Celeblas flinched back from the harshness is his lord's voice. After a moment that could easily have been an eternity, Maedhros continued. 

"I loved him."

"Why?"

Another laugh, cold and flat. "He was my father." 

Celeblas tilted his head slightly, and somehow managed to give the impression of studying Maedhros intently without actually looking at him. Maedhros was not sure how he did this, only that he found the feeling distinctly unpleasant. He disliked scrutiny of any sort. 

"Why did you ask that?" 

"I don't know." 

The northern horizon was lit faintly red. If he closed his eyes, Maedhros could feel the heat of the flames of Morgoth on his faceimaginary, perhaps, but in times like these there was little to separate truth from imagination. He wondered if Fingon was alive in Hithlum, and if Celegorm and Curufin had made it safely to Nargothrond. He hoped so, of course, but what had he ever been able to do but hope?

Hope had killed Fëanor. 

Maedhros, his son, did not trust it.

They would feast on bread and wine, don armor, and die defending the lands they had beautified. 

The stump of Maedhros's right hand gave a sudden and unexpected throb. Maedhros heard someone yell and felt hands on his shoulders, but his sphere of consciousness seemed to be decreasing.


End file.
